The Devil's Contract

by Claire Contreras

  “Here we are,” Seth said when they reached another luxury condo building that Amara had walked by countless times when she’d lived in the city.

  She stepped out of the car when the bellman opened her door, and shot Seth a questioning look over her shoulder.

  “Hey, I just get paid to drive you here and back when you’re done. I’m not a bodyguard,” he answered with a shrug.

  Her eyes widened, and her heart began to pound in her chest. She hadn’t even considered that she would need a bodyguard. “Who am I meeting?”

  Seth smiled. “I didn’t mean to worry you. You don’t need a bodyguard.”

  She wasn’t smiling as she stepped out of the car. In fact, her feet stayed cemented to the sidewalk for a long moment as she looked at the red awning of 67 Park Ave. A large group of older people stepped out of the building as she walked in. The lobby wasn’t very big, but groups of old people were scattered around, talking amongst themselves. Amara wondered if she was in some kind of old folks home. She shrugged it off. Maybe that was why Seth was so sure she didn’t need help.

  Amara walked to the elevator and punched in the floor number when she got inside. In her hand, she held at the instructions Samuel had written down for her. “PH floor. Code: 4529. Elevator opens to foyer. Go inside, he’s expecting you. Sit in the living room, don’t touch anything.”

  She reached the foyer and ran her fingertips over the big, round, wooden table in the center, walking past two large mirrors that adorned the hallway. She took a moment to look at herself again, making sure her lipstick wasn’t smeared. Fluffing her hair and fixing the flyways, Amara began to walk toward the living room. Her heels clinked loudly against the marble floor as she walked directly to the large windows at the end. Her fingers splayed over the glass as she looked out. She knew Central Park sat beneath her, although it was too dark to make out much of it. Amara was still looking outside, lost in thought when she heard the footsteps approaching her.

  “Hello, Amara,” he said.

  His voice sent a burst of shivers down her spine, and she turned around quickly.

  “What—” her mouth hung open, unable to finish the sentence.

  He chuckled as his espresso-colored eyes burned into her. His voice was rough and dark, without a hint of humor, and for the first time in a long time, she felt trapped.

  “What am I doing here? Is that the question?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.

  She shut her eyes and took a breath. “Yes,” she said shakily.

  “How did you like fucking Nolan last night? Was that good for you?”

  Her eyes shot open in a gasp. “How did you?”

  He closed the gap between them, standing in front of her—towering over her —letting his scent wash over her as he speared her with the anger in his eyes.

  “Don’t you want to know if it was me you were fucking last night?” he asked.

  She couldn’t find her voice—couldn’t find her breath.

  “Ask me!”

  “Was it you?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Was it me what? Ask me the goddamn question!”

  “Was it you I had sex with last night?”

  “Me who? Me Nolan? Me Colin? Me who!”

  “You, Colin,” she whispered as tears sprung free.

  His lip curled up, but there was nothing endearing about this smile. He leaned into her ear. “It was. It took me a while to track down what you were doing.” His voice was low. His breath on her ear sent a shiver through her body. “So nice of you to add in how much you missed your ex-boyfriend all the while you were fucking other men.”

  “That wasn’t a lie,” she whispered, blinking at her tears.

  “The waterworks is a real treat too, Mara. Beautiful act you put on.”

  “It’s not an act!”

  He gripped her hair and pulled it back tightly. Her head was at an angle, the position it was usually when he kissed her neck. She knew he wouldn’t though. She knew this wasn’t the Colin she’d last seen. She realized he must have been putting on his own act by being gentle with her the night before, acting as Nolan.

  “What do you want me to call you? Amara? Jasmine?” His eyes were narrowed and blazing with anger.

  “Amara,” she gasped out.

  “Do you want to know how I found out where you were?”

  She tried to nod as tears pricked her eyes. “Yes,” she gasped when he tugged again.

  “You want to hear about how much I fucking missed you and was trying to reach you after you left... after my dad died, and I got swamped with shit I didn’t want to deal with... how one of those things was Méchant.”

  Her eyes widened.

  Colin smiled ruthlessly and continued. “How I became majority owner of an escort service that I had already stumbled upon... but that wasn’t enough of a shock... finding out it employed my ex-girlfriend though—the girl I was in love with—that was...” he shook his head, letting the words hang.

  “I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

  “Don’t.”

  Amara blinked up at him as he loosened his grip on her. He pushed her back against the cool surface of the glass behind her.

  “I own you, Amara Maloof,” he said, his voice low and grating as his eyes bore into hers. “Do you understand me?”

  She nodded slowly. The words had never been truer, yet they’d never tasted as bitter as they did then.

  “Say. It.”

  “You own me, Colin,” she said, sealing her fate.

  You,

  Thank you (so much!) for reading this book. I hope you enjoyed it!

  I wrote a cliffhanger once, and I said I wouldn’t publish another book ending on a cliffhanger again UNLESS I already started the second one (which I did). There will only be two books in this series. The Sinner’s Bargain will be out in the fall of 2014.

  In the meantime, check out my other books:

  There is No Light in Darkness

  Darkness Before Dawn

  Catch Me

  Xo,

  Claire

  Catch me if you dare:

  @claricon

  facebook.com/ccontrerasbooks

  ccontrerasbooks@gmail.com

  I would like to thank...

  My peoples! Some of you read and gave me amazing feedback. Others were my cheerleaders, ALL of you are my friends, my shoulders, and everything you do is so, so, appreciated... Rachel Keenan, Christine, Eli Salom, MJ Abraham, Barbie Bohrman, Lisa Chamberlin, Sara Queen, Syreeta Jennings, Emmy Montes, Michelle Finkle, Crysti Perry, Bridget Peoples, Milasy Mugnolo, Taryn Cellucci, Amy McAvoy, Autumn H, Stephanie Brown, Jessica Soto. Thank you.

  Wordsmith Publicity- FOR EVERYTHING.

  My family, for putting up with my mood swings.

  C, the best boyfriend I could never write. I love you x infinity.

  Tracey- for the editing!

  Najla Qamber- for my amazing cover

  Tomasz- for another beautiful photo.

  ALL of the blogs that promote me. All of the people that promote me constantly. My crazies, my CCB crew, I love you! Extra special thanks to: Shh Mom’s Reading, Rockstars of Romance, My Secret Romance, Schmexy, Autumn’s Review, SMI Book Club (xo Grace and Yaya), Holly’s Red Hot Reads.

  Lastly, I was dealing with health issues while finishing this story up. I didn’t realize it at the time, but having to finish this up wasn’t as helpful as writing normally is when I’m dealing with things. Although I always stay positive, I wasn’t always “happy”, but these people helped me stay strong. I want to thank them because they were there for me, whether they knew it or not, and when they did know it, were there for me 100%. I will never forget.

  Michelle Finkle, Mimi Abraham, Barbie Bohrman, Lisa Chamberlin, Alison Bailey, Tarryn Fisher, Lori Sabin, Madeline Sheehan, Gail McHugh, Emmy Montes, Syreeta Jennings, Luisa Hansen, Christina Leffers, Joni Wilson, Marivett Villafane, Jessica Sotelo, Amanda Cantu, Rachel Keenan, Lizzy Henriquez, Ciara Martinez, Virginia Carey, Sandra Saenz, Shawn
ee Tillmon, Alison Philips, Ellie Smith, Robin Stranahan, Sarah Lowe, Alexis Moore, Kayla Veres, Becky Lowe, Trisha Brinkley, Robin Segnitz, Daisy Ezquenazi, Dyann Tufts, Krystle Zion, Fred LeBaron, Robin Powers, Gladys Medina, Jen Lin Dale, Erin Hunt, LaStephanie Foster, Danicka Ward, Candy Rodal, Missy Malachin, Autumn Hull, Lynda Ybarra, Tessa Teevan, Kim Shackleford, Joanna Hoffman Dursi, Neeny Boucher, Kelly Zimmerman Lindstrom, Michelle Dyson, Cezanne Dilbert, Taryn Cellucci, Sandy Borrero, SAQ, SSB, and lastly, but definitely not least, my Bumpies! <3

  Sneak Peek of

  Flip the page for a sneak peek of TAINT by SL Jennings

  DAY ONE IS always fucking exasperating.

  The tears. The glassy-eyed looks of confusion as they try to piece together where their vapid relationships went wrong. The stupid, incessant questions on how I could possibly live up to my word and earn every cent of the small fortunes their husbands have paid to send them here.

  Sit there and shut up, honey. One of us is a professional. Now, if I need help making a fucking sandwich or getting red wine out of a linen tablecloth, I’ll ask for your opinion. Otherwise, shut those powder-pink lips and look pretty.

  That’s all they’re good for—looking pretty. Cooking. Cleaning. Taking care of disgusting, snotty-nosed spawn.

  Stepford wives. Trophies. High-class, well-bred prostitutes.

  They seem perfect in every way. Beautiful, intelligent, graceful. The perfect accessory for the man who has it all.

  Except one thing.

  They’re as dull as lukewarm dishwater once you get them on their perfectly postured backs.

  As they say, looks can be deceiving. Sexy does not equate good sex. More often than not, this theory holds true. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be in business. And let me tell you, business is good. Very good.

  I take a sip of water as I scan the varied faces of shock and horror that typically follows my usual, first day speech. This class is larger than the last, but I’m not surprised. It’s the end of the summer—a season when wearing less clothing than socially appropriate is acceptable. Husbands’ eyes have strayed, and so have their dicks. And in an effort to save their picture-fucking-perfect marriages, they’ve come to me, hoping by some miracle, I can make their husbands look at them like they see more than a well-groomed melee of coifed hair, veneers and filler.

  A slender hand goes up, and I nod towards the young, waif-thin brunette who’s shaking like a leaf in her Prada floral frock. It’s ugly as shit, and makes her look like a middle-aged bag lady. She reminds me of one of those half-twit wives from Mad Men. Not the hot secretary, the one that just sat her ass at home, eating bon-bons in front of her black-and-white television set, while her husband screwed everything that moved.

  “So... what exactly do you do? Are you, like, a teacher or something?” she asks, just above a whisper.

  “More like a consultant. You all share a very serious issue and I hope to... guide you towards some suggestions that may rectify your situation.”

  “What situation?”

  Holy fuck. Testing, testing. Is this thing on or has Botox already begun to corrode her brain cells?

  I smile tightly through the aggravation. Patience is key in my profession. Most days, I feel more like an overworked, underpaid daycare provider than a... lifestyle... coach. Same, same.

  “I thought I explained the situation, Mrs.-” I squint at the file in front of me, matching her face to the name. “Cosgrove.”

  Lorinda Cosgrove. As in Cos-Mart, the place where you can go shopping for Honey Buns, cheap lingerie and a 9-millimeter at 3 a.m. while wearing cut-off booty shorts and Crocs. No lie, there are websites dedicated to these trainwrecks. Google that shit.

  “Yes, I am aware of your assessment, as crude as it is. However, what do you expect to achieve?”

  I shake my head marginally. There’s always one in every class. One that doesn’t want to accept the ugly truth staring her in the face. Even though she’s read the manual, signed the contracts, and undergone all the necessary briefings before arriving, she still can’t grasp her reality—flashing bright, neon arrows toward her dried-up vagina. Good thing I have no qualms about reminding her.

  “You suck at sex,” I deadpan, my expression blank. Audible gasps escape from almost every collagen-plumped lip, yet I continue to drive my point home. “You don’t satisfy your husband sexually, which is why he wants to cheat on you, if he hasn’t already. You may be a fantastic wife, mother, homemaker, whatever, but you are a lousy lover. And that trumps all.”

  Lorinda clutches her chest with a shaky, manicured hand. The woman sitting next to her, a heavier-set, 40-something housewife—whose husband’s mid-life crisis, and love of barely legal debutantes have turned their marriage into a media circus—steadies her with a motherly squeeze on the shoulder. Aw, how sweet.

  “And that goes for all of you,” I say, casting my glance around the room. “You’re here because you know you’re about to lose the one thing you’ve worked your pretty little ass off for—your man. You love the lifestyle you live, and instead of licking your wounds and moving on, you’d rather fix your broken marriage. And I’m here to help you.”

  “But how?”

  A slow, sardonic smile unfurls across my face. “I’m going to teach you how to fuck your husband.”

  More gasps. More pearl clutching. Even a few shrieks of My word!

  “But that’s not...” Lorinda screeches above the flurry of discontent. “Not proper. Not dignified.”

  And there it is.

  It’s the reason why her husband, Lane Cosgrove, likes to bend his pretty blonde secretary over his desk and fuck her senseless while she calls him “Daddy.” He has a thing for anal—giving and taking it. His secretary keeps a strap-on in the locked filing cabinet beside her desk for Thursday nights. Lane always works late on Thursdays, leaving Lorinda to her usual book club meeting, Women’s Bible Study, wine tasting, etcetera, etcetera. Nothing Lane does on Thursdays is proper. Letting his secretary probe him with a 10-inch dildo while his mouth is stuffed with her panties to muffle his cries, is anything but dignified. And he knows it. That’s why Lorinda can’t satisfy his needs. And letting your very rich and powerful husband leave home sexually unsatisfied is like giving him a loaded gun. Sooner or later, he’s going to pop off a few rounds.

  On cue, my head of concierge, Diane, enters, followed by several members of my staff. Time to move this little welcoming party right along before any more tears are shed.

  “Ladies, if you feel that you do not need this program and have ended up here by some mistake, please feel free to leave. Our drivers are prepared to take you straight to the airport, and you will be given a full refund. We just ask that you honor the Non-disclosure agreements you and your spouses have signed.”

  No one makes a move to stand, so I continue. “If you would like to stay and learn how to improve your sex lives and, ultimately, your relationships, our staff will show you to your rooms. You will find that they are fully equipped with en suite facilities and amenities, plus we have a twenty-four hour chef and staff at your disposal. The property also houses a state-of-the-art fitness center, spa and salon for all your personal needs. Comfort is key here. Welcome to Oasis, ladies. We want you to consider this your home for the next six weeks of instruction.”

  Eleven sets of eyes stare back at me, waiting for the first command. No one wants to be the first to jump out of their seat, arms flailing as they scream, Pick me! Pick me! Teach me, I want to learn! They all want this; they all want the secrets of marital bliss. And they know everything I’ve said is true.

  Each and every one of these women know that someone else is fucking their husbands because they don’t know how to.

  And deep down, I feel for them. Hell, I even sympathize with them. They’ve made it their life’s goal to meet and marry someone that will catapult them from their mediocre upbringing, and nestle them within the comforts of wealth and luxury.

  It’s a regular Pretty Woman syndrome. They go f
rom lying on their backs for free, or for some inconsequential promise of commitment in the form of a cheap, dime-store diamond ring, to more jewels than they even have limbs to wear them on. But what these ladies fail to realize is that whatever they had to do to nab their Richard Gere, they have to do that—and more—to keep him.

  The staff ushers the women up to their private rooms, leaving me alone in the great room just as the Arizona sun begins to melt, slowly sliding down the azure sky. It morphs into a life-size canvas of ombre oranges, pinks, blues and purples, the breathtaking view not sullied by towering buildings or jigsaw highways. Oasis is tucked far away from civilization, away from paparazzi, designer bullshit, and reality television.

  This is my favorite part of the day—when gravity pulls that scorching, desert sun above, coaxing it into the outstretched, jagged arms of mountains and cacti. Even the most arduous souls seek comfort and solitude.

  I make my way across the courtyard towards the guesthouse. I own all the property, but I don’t sleep in the main house. There’s a level of privacy and professionalism that I must uphold, and being locked in a secluded mansion with eleven other women can be... difficult. My business is sex. I instruct sex. I live and breathe sex. And I need it, just like their duplicitous husbands.

  So thanks to my “don’t shit where you eat” policy, I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, only sating my sexual appetite between the four courses I host per year. Even then, I’m discreet. Being any other way just isn’t profitable in my line of work.

  After letting the shower rinse away the day’s aggravation, I dress and head to the dining room for dinner. The ladies trickle in one by one, quietly taking seats around the grand table. They’re all still here. Eleven women desperate to reconnect with the men they hope to be tied to until death. The men that promised to move heaven and earth in exchange for their promise of commitment. The men who have broken their vows to sate sexual deviances and feed their egos.